Part 3 (1/2)
”After working at Barnaby all day, and wandering about the most wretched and distressful streets for a couple of hours in the evening--searching for some pictures I wanted to build upon--I went at it, at about ten o'clock. To say that the reading that most astonis.h.i.+ng and tremendous account has const.i.tuted an epoch in my life--that I shall never forget the lightest word of it--that I cannot throw the impression aside, and never saw anything so real, so touching, and so actually present before my eyes, is nothing. I am husband and wife, dead man and living woman, Emma and General Dundas, doctor and bedstead--everything and everybody (but the Prussian officer--d.a.m.n him) all in one. What I have always looked upon as masterpieces of powerful and affecting description, seem as nothing in my eyes. If I live for fifty years, I shall dream of it every now and then, from this hour to the day of my death, with the most frightful reality. The slightest mention of a battle will bring the whole thing before me. I shall never think of the Duke any more but as he stood in his s.h.i.+rt with the officer in full-dress uniform, or as he dismounted from his horse when the gallant man was struck down. It is a striking proof of the power of that most extraordinary man, Defoe, that I seem to recognise in every line of the narrative something of him. Has this occurred to you? The going to Waterloo with that unconsciousness of everything in the road, but the obstacles to getting on--the shutting herself up in her room and determining not to hear--the not going to the door when the knocking came--the finding out by her wild spirits when she heard he was safe, how much she had feared when in doubt and anxiety--the desperate desire to move towards him--the whole description of the cottage, and its condition; and their daily s.h.i.+fts and contrivances, and the lying down beside him in the bed and both _falling asleep_; and his resolving not to serve any more, but to live quietly thenceforth; and her sorrow when she saw him eating with an appet.i.te, so soon before his death; and his death itself--all these are matters of truth, which only that astonis.h.i.+ng creature, I think, could have told in fiction.
”Of all the beautiful and tender pa.s.sages--the thinking every day how happy and blest she was--the decorating him for the dinner--the standing in the balcony at night and seeing the troops melt away through the gate--and the rejoining him on his sick-bed--I say not a word. They are G.o.d's own, and should be sacred. But let me say again, with an earnestness which pen and ink can no more convey than toast and water, in thanking you heartily for the perusal of this paper, that its impression on me can never be told; that the ground she travelled (which I know well) is holy ground to me from this day; and that, please Heaven, I will tread its every foot this very next summer, to have the softened recollection of this sad story on the very earth where it was acted.
”You won't smile at this, I know. When my enthusiasms are awakened by such things, they don't wear out....--Faithfully yours,
”CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.”[31]
[Footnote 31: The complete letter will be found in Appendix A of this volume.]
Many literary and artistic masterpieces have grouped themselves round Waterloo. One of the most striking pa.s.sages in _Vanity Fair_ refers to an imaginary incident in connection with the battle. Sir Walter Scott once said that in the whole range of English poetry there was nothing finer than the stanzas in _Childe Harold_, commencing with the line--
”There was a sound of revelry by night,”
and ending with the words--
”Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.”
Tennyson's _Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington_ ranks as a funeral dirge with _Lycidas_ and _Adonais_. Napoleon's tomb in the Invalides may hold its own almost with the Taj. Yet, when all is said and done, the fact remains that no hero of the battle, and indeed few victims of war, have ever received a more touching memorial than the one here set forth in the sight of all future generations of men by the love and the literary genius of Lady De Lancey.
B.R. WARD.
HALIFAX, N.S., _April_ 1906.
[Ill.u.s.tration: COLONEL SIR WILLIAM HOWE DE LANCEY (_c._ 1813).]
A WEEK AT WATERLOO IN 1815
I arrived at Brussels on Thursday, 8th June 1815, and was much surprised at the peaceful appearance of that town, and the whole country from Ostend. We were billeted in the house of the Count de Lannoy, in the Park, which is a square of very beautiful houses with fine large trees in the centre. The Count de Lannoy was very attentive, and we had a suite of very excellent rooms, up four stories, which is the fas.h.i.+on in that country, I believe. It was amusing enough, sometimes, to see from our windows the people parading in the Park. I saw very little of the town, and still less of the inhabitants; for notwithstanding Sir William's belief that we should remain quietly there for a month at least, I have the comfort of remembering that, as there was a chance we might separate in a few days, I wasted no time in visiting or going to b.a.l.l.s, which I did not care for, and therefore I never went out, except for an hour or two every afternoon, to walk with Sir William.
The people in general dined between three and four, we dined at six; we walked while others were at dinner, so that literally I never saw anybody, except some gentlemen, two or three of whom dined with us every day--Sir William's friends, whom he brought to introduce to me.
I never pa.s.sed such a delightful time, for there was always enough of very pleasant society to keep us gay and merry, and the rest of the day was spent in peaceful happiness.
Fortunately my husband had scarcely any business to do, and he only went to the office for about an hour every day. I then used to sit and think with astonishment of my being transported into such a scene of happiness, so perfect, so unalloyed!--feeling that I was entirely enjoying life--not a moment wasted. How active and how well I was! I scarcely knew what to do with all my health and spirits. Now and then a pang would cross my mind at the prospect of the approaching campaign, but I chased away the thought, resolved not to lose the present bliss by dwelling on the chance of future pain. Sir William promised to let me know as soon as he knew himself, everything concerning the movement of the army; and accordingly he gave me every paper to read, to keep my mind easy. After some consideration, he decided that upon the commencement of hostilities I should go to Antwerp, and there remain till the end of the campaign, which might last months. He wished me not to think of going along with him, because the rear of a great army was always dangerous, and an unfit situation for a woman; and he wished not to draw me into any scenes, or near any danger, more than if I had remained in England. He little thought I should be in the midst of horrors I would not pa.s.s again for any being _now_ living; and alas, the cautious anxiety he expressed that I should avoid being shocked, only made me feel more desolate and miserable when I found myself in the midst of most terrible scenes.
Several other officers, on hearing that he designed to send me to Antwerp, fixed that their wives should go there too. It is a very strongly fortified town, and likewise having the sea to escape by, if necessary, it was by far the safest place; and being only twenty-five miles from Brussels, it added so little to the time of hearing from him, if separated, that I acquiesced cheerfully. After this was arranged, we never thought more about it, and enjoyed each hour as it pa.s.sed with no more anxiety than was sufficient to render time precious.
On Wednesday the 14th, I had a little alarm in the evening with some public papers, and Sir William went out with them, but returned in a short time; and it pa.s.sed by so completely, that Thursday(1) forenoon was the happiest day of my life; but I cannot recollect a day of my short married life that was not perfect. I shall never get on if I begin to talk of what my happiness was; but I dread to enter on the gloomy past, which I shudder to look back upon, and I often wonder I survived it. We little dreamt that Thursday was the last we were to pa.s.s together, and that the storm would burst so soon. Sir William had to dine at the Spanish Amba.s.sador's,(2) the first invitation he had accepted from the time I went; he was unwilling to go, and delayed and still delayed, till at last when near six, I fastened all his medals and crosses on his coat, helped him to put it on, and he went.(3) I watched at the window till he was out of sight, and then I continued musing on my happy fate; I thought over all that had pa.s.sed, and how grateful I felt! I had no wish but that this might continue; I saw my husband loved and respected by everyone, my life gliding on, like a gay dream, in his care.
When I had remained at the window nearly an hour, I saw an aide-de-camp ride under the gateway of our house. He sent to enquire where Sir William was dining. I wrote down the name; and soon after I saw him gallop off in that direction. I did not like this appearance, but I tried not to be afraid. A few minutes after, I saw Sir William on the same horse gallop past to the Duke's,(4) which was a few doors beyond ours. He dismounted and ran into the house--left the horse in the middle of the street. I must confess my courage failed me now, and the succeeding two hours formed a contrast to the happy forenoon.
About nine,(5) Sir William came in; seeing my wretched face, he bade me not be foolish, for it would soon be all over now; they expected a great battle on the morrow; he would send me to Antwerp in the morning, and desired me to be ready at six. He said that though he expected it would be a decisive battle, and a conclusion of the whole business, he thought it best I should keep the plan of going to Antwerp, to avoid the alarms that he knew would seize everyone the moment the troops were gone; and he said he would probably join me there, or send for me to return the same evening. He said he should be writing all night, perhaps: he desired me to prepare some strong green tea in case he came in, as the violent exertion requisite to setting the whole army in motion quite stupefied him sometimes. He used sometimes to tell me that whenever the operations began, if he thought for five minutes on any other subject, he was neglecting his duty. I therefore scrupulously avoided asking him any questions, or indeed speaking at all.(6) I moved up and down like one stupefied myself.
He went to the office, and returned near twelve,(7) much fatigued, but he did not attempt to sleep; he went twice to the Duke's; the first time he found him standing looking over a map with a Prussian general,(8) who was in full-dress uniform--with orders and crosses, etc.--the Duke was in his chemise and slippers, preparing to dress for the d.u.c.h.ess of Richmond's ball; the two figures were quite admirable.
The ball took place notwithstanding the reveille played through the streets the whole night. Many of the officers danced, and then marched(9) in the morning.
About two, Sir William went again to the Duke, and he was sleeping sound! At three the troops were all a.s.sembled in the Park, and Sir William and I leant over the window, seeing them march off--so few to return. It was a clear refres.h.i.+ng morning, and the scene was very solemn and melancholy.(10) The fifes played alone, and the regiments one after another marched past, and I saw(11) them melt away through the great gate at the end of the Square. Shall I ever forget the tunes played by the shrill fifes and the buglehorns which disturbed that night!
At six in the morning, Friday the 16th, I went to Antwerp: Sir William gave me a letter to Captain Mitch.e.l.l, in the Q.M.-General's department, requesting him to take charge of me. Accordingly, soon after we arrived I was settled in very comfortable apartments. I was at first for an hour in the inn,(12) and I lay down in a small back room. In the evening I sent my maid from the lodgings to get some wine at the inn; when wandering in the pa.s.sage to find some English person, she opened the door of the room I had been in, and saw the body(13) of the Duke of Brunswick on the very bed.